Farewell, sweet boy, complain not of my truth ;
Thy mother loved thee not with more devotion ;
For to thy boy's play I gave all my youth :
Young Master, I did hope for your promotion.

While some sought honours, princes' thoughts observing ;
Many woo'd Fame, the child of pain and anguish,
Others judged inward good a chief deserving ;
I in thy wanton visions joyed to languish.

I bowed not to the image for succession,
Nor bound thy bow to shoot reformèd kindness ;
Thy plays of hope and fear were my confession,
The spectacles to my life was thy blindness :
But Cupid now farewell, I will go play me,
With thoughts that please me less, and less betray me.